


Adagio For Castiel

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bonding over music, Cafe and Bookstore, F/M, Falling In Love, First Date, Hidden Themes, Match making dog, Mentions of Classical Music, More tags to be added, Musician!Reader, Pianist!Castiel, Romance, Sickness, Symbolism, Warning: This story is sweet as southern tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-10-06 18:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: Life. A movement, ripe with highs and lows. Failures and triumphs, and he's had his fair share of both. He's content. Truly. Until you come along. You're a crescendo, penned suspiciously like a dolce, taken him by surprise and turned his andante way of life and lit it on fire. He's isolated himself within a desire to live sempre pianissimo, and you're waking him up.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think this will be a very long story. Maybe ten parts, possibly 12. We'll see. I'm looking forward to this one.   
> I'd also advise you guys to look up the music I write in. Great stuff, honestly. There's a reason people still play their works to this day. So, the musical mentions in this chapter:  
> Schumann: Kinderszenen Op. 15 No. 7, Traumerei (Horowitz)  
> Beethoven Sonata No. 21 in C Major, "Waldstein" (Pletnev)

He cuts a moving picture there at the piano, absorbed, respectful, expression soft, eyes hooded as he watches his hands glide over keys with gentle familiarity. Ah, the ease, the smooth press of nimble fingers that bring forth strong notes without the use of brutality: a hidden art, a reverence of one who understands and know music. Believes in it. He believes in music the way some people believe in God.

The piano is unblemished, marble-white, perfectly in tune and accommodating to his mastery, his quiet professionalism as he draws out the soul of each note; the music stand is empty. But his being is full. Full of inspiration. Whether it be hope, despair, nostalgia, longing, anger, contentment, hunger, exhaustion: he has cause to play. To bare his soul upon black and white teeth that chew, serrate, digest and then speak- or in most cases, sing -a testament of emotion, expertise, give a testimony to the hidden inner workings of life itself.

The piano is a tool as much as he is a bird. Not at all. The piano is an extension of himself. A stationary conduit that invokes movement, stirs the mind, stokes the spirit, feeds the soul, and transcends the body. It is escapism, even as he is seated upon a rickety wood bench, chipped and peeling and creaky. So very different from his one at home.

But it isn’t the bench, or the keys, or the venue. It is _him_ that fills the room with awe and resplendence. Sunlight cuts furiously through the cloud bank and the dust-coated panes of the day room to streak demurely though the gray tinged air and dapple the fading hardwood with persuasive cheer.

The domed glass ceiling, sliced into rising trapezoids, captures the music, holds it sweetly prisoner within its confines of wooden frames and water spotted panes, rattling around vivaciously within the sun-warmed air. A muted cry to heaven, forestalled and unheard, an ear turned idly away.

Hands, still delicate in their intention, harden a fraction, in blood alone. It is not lack of volume that impedes Heaven’s attention, but purpose. He does not play to be heard. He plays because he feels. Because he is alive. And when he is dead, he will play still. Whether be Heaven or Hell that his soul resides in for eternity…he will play.

He is assured at the piano, shoulders loose and relaxed, arms the same. His expression is slack, open to the music. Eyes closed to the world, better to feel. Ears shape his reality as his hands offer up ample sacrifice. He’s ruminating on something only known to him, a feeling. One he fails putting into words.

His long lashes flutter in response to the music spilling from the maw of the piano, his fingers continue their divine delivery.

Sunlight caresses the body of the piano, reverent, ethereal. And when it cascades over Castiel’s slight frame- fluid and swaying with the tempo -freed from the gloom of the cloud bank? Poetry. Shy exultation. Tender glorification. Nature taken note: there’s a separate variety of beauty, out of her reach; fleeting, humble, instrumental. A breathing reverie, a fallible ode to the sanctity of a gentle spirit, an open mind, and a forgiving heart. Mother Nature weeps in embarrassment of herself.

And Castiel is unaware. In a melodic cocoon of his own making he does not emerge easily, nor willfully. He basks in the euphoria of his soul-letting, feeling light as the birds that flit from branch to branch in the garden beyond the floor to ceiling wall of glass in front of him. In truth? He is freer than those birds will ever be, even with their ability to touch the Heavens.

His hands reside carefully in his lap, fingers laced but not latched. His cornflower blues adorn a fond, faraway glaze to them as he appreciates the garden and its tranquil beauty. His slightly chapped lips quirk in the corners furtively, as if in indulgence of an inside joke.

“Mr. Novak?” The question is hesitant, soft. Accommodating.

No doubt she has waited. Allowed him to spoil himself. She always does, bless her.

He smiles apologetically, eyes coming back to the piano. “I’m sorry, Cady. I got carried away again.” His rise from the bench is slow, reluctant.

He studiously pulls the fall down over the keys, drags his fingertips along the lacquered wood and recalls the quickly fading sensation of flesh against ivory capped spruce wood, worshipful and holy. The connection between heart and the anatomy of a piano…already he aches to play again.

“It’s no trouble, Mr. Novak,” She shakes her head gently, meeting his sheepish expression patiently. “It’s quite cathartic…medicinal even.”

His dark eyebrows rise. “For the soul, perhaps. If it were medicinal for the body…”

She smiles sadly, sympathetic. “You never know, Mr. Novak,” She says, patting his arm as he passes her, starting his long trek down the hallway that smells like carnations just under the currant of antiseptic.

“You just never know…” She murmurs to herself, glancing over her shoulder at the sun-kissed day room, the lonely piano, not half as lonely as the man who plays it when he visits. She readjusts her uniform and shuts the door behind her.

Schumann Op. 15 No. 7 hangs in the gloomy atmosphere of the empty room, lingering heavily around the piano, and drifting hauntingly, lazily, within the domed ceiling. The music stand is vacant. Waiting.

Running late, cursing under your breath and gulping lukewarm coffee with a grimace, you fly into the parking lot, vaguely mindful about pedestrians. You wave apologetically at another woman in a hurry, purse swinging madly in her jaunty walk through the maze of cars. The two of you notice one another just in time.

Though, if you were to accidentally run someone over, this would be the place to do it.

Beethoven’s Sonata No. 21 isn’t even out of the first movement, but you’re running heinously late and you think the dead musician will cut you some slack for your impudence. You tumble out of your car, click your door locked, fumble your keys into your pocket and jog towards the building, coffee sloshing out of your beat-up thermos. You hum the continuation of the sonata under your breath. An impressive feat, considering the tempo.

After trying to push a pull-open door for a hearty five seconds and righting yourself, you step into the relative warmth of the lobby and wave sheepishly at the front desk as you bee-line for the elevator. When the doors slide closed behind you, you heave a sigh of relief. You finally made it. And pick up your humming again.

“Beethoven is rolling in his grave, deaf and all.” It’s spoken like you’ve committed a great slight against humanity, like you’ve run over a puppy and kept driving, and you stop humming mid-progression.

Cheeks warming in embarrassment, and a little offense, you look over your shoulder to shoot a retort, something along the lines of _Have you tried humming Sonata No. 21?_ But you once again stop abruptly.

He’s criminally attractive, and you’re criminally uncouth. So you don’t even try.

His arm extends towards the door as well as one long, lithe leg. He’s on his way out, but he pauses long enough to say, “Beethoven is meant for the hands, that sonata especially. Not the voice. But an admirable attempt, all the same. Good day.”

And he glides out into the lobby, slipping his slender fingered hands into the pockets of his slacks, appearing all too graceful and lively for the subdued environment he’s in. The doors close, cutting off your view of him, and you stand a few seconds in stupefied admiration, heart thumping wildly.

And now you are unforgivably late. You’ll have to play with unmatched vigor for her today. If she’s even awake.

Castiel pauses in the lobby, after he hears the doors close, and half turns to stare at the elevator with a wistful, albeit slightly confused smile pulling at his lips. You were a mess, obviously running late, one of your boots was untied and half zipped up, your collared white shirt was slightly wrinkled, you were only wearing one earring, and your right coat sleeve was stained with coffee. No doubt because the lid was halfway screwed on.

Regardless, he finds something about you vaguely charming. But only vaguely. He decides not to obsess. He doubts he’ll ever see you again.

When he gets home, he heads straight for his grand piano, and sits down to play…Beethoven. Sonata 21. Of all things. And he hums along, or tries to, anyway. It’s horrendous, and he laughs, bending over the keys with the force of his humor. But his hands are steady and obedient, and continue Beethoven’s piece faithfully, perfectly.

He plays into the late hours wearing a secret smile, holding in his mind’s eye your arrival into the elevator and your terrible- but cheery -humming. He sits alone on his piano bench, but he feels a little less lonely despite it.


	2. Concerto, For Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple day, boring as death. Keep to his schedule, don't deviate, the plan is important. The plan...can go jump off a cliff. Castiel feels something looming on the horizon, even as he stubbornly denies a growing shape of something that looks achingly like hope. You look like hope. And he's denied it for so long he'll have no trouble dealing with you. That is dead certain. Until he hears you play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece that the reader plays in this chapter:  
> Chopin: Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise Brillante Op. 22 (Weissenberg)
> 
> Listen to it after reading the chapter because it's a good 13 mins long and won't match my description length.

Come morning, sunlight creeps and claws imploringly at his deep blue silk curtains, offering a bare minimum of illumination to his silent bedroom. His Dutch Shepherd, curled at the foot of his bed, snoozes resiliently, growling and huffing in response to whatever dream he’s living that’s making him twitch and jerk.

Castiel lays for a few moments, staring at his bare ceiling, drinking in the quiet and relishing his few free minutes to think about whatever he pleases before his alarm rings and he’s accosted by his daily schedule. Absent-mindedly, his fingers tap on his chest, playing some piece buried in the back of his mind while he idly ruminates on this and that.

Breath leaves his lungs in an over-dramatic stream as his alarm flares to life, seemingly louder and more grating on his nerves now that he’s awake. His dog, raising his head, ears pricked, looks at him accusingly.

Castiel meets those curious, simultaneously accusatory brown-rusted eyes with a quirked brow. “I’m not fond of it either.” He says shortly and presses the off button on his alarm. His four-legged companion reads that as the start of the day and hops to his feet to pad over the bed towards him, panting happily.

Paws slip over Castiel’s shins, nails slope over a thigh as his dog misjudges the width of his master’s frame.

“Allegro- ” Castiel starts, to be cut off as a cosmically placed paw lands precisely on his jewels. The breath wheezes out of him swiftly, one of his hands shoots up to grasp the fur at Allegro’s nape, but it doesn’t deter the shepherd.

Allegro patters further up, paws on Castiel’s chest, 65 lbs of joy and excitement pressing even more breath out of his lazy master. He licks fervently at Castiel’s stubbly jaw, anything to wake him up and get out of bed- Allegro is starving! He had the best dream about steaks, and peanut butter, before it dissolved into PTSD inducing trips to the vet.

Castiel grunts, plants a hand on Allegro’s sternum and more or less shoves him off, he rolls on his side and saws breath back into his body. Allegro barks behind him, jovial.

Such is the beginning of his day.

A shower, quick and efficient, steaming hot to soothe his aching muscles and tired bones, wash away the fatigue of the last few days…the memories. He wraps a towel around his waist, cinches it tight and relishes the gooseflesh that rises as the water droplets on his skin dry. Allegro is at his heels, panting and barking softly, imploring that he hurry with his boring human things and _feed him_!

Castiel nearly trips down the stairs as Allegro barrels past him, knocking his knees and jostling his head into Castiel’s hip. Castiel glares after him, “That’s all I need. To meet my untimely end tripping over you down a flight of hardwood steps.”

Allegro barks from the kitchen, soundly oddly agreeable.

Breakfast passes without preamble. Eggs, scrambled, with spinach and zucchini and a few slices of onion all sautéed in a pan, lightly seasoned with salt. On the side he prepares a few slices of tomato and avocado. He drinks a large glass of milk and calls it all a success. Allegro noses around his bowl for more, huffs when he finds none, and looks up at Castiel, soulful brown eyes pleading…

Castiel returns his stare flatly. “Maybe if you hadn’t trampolined off my nuts…” He grabs a water bottle from the fridge and leaves, feeling Allegro’s affronted gaze pinned to his retreating back.

The morning newspaper waits on his front step and he stoops to grab it, getting a headrush that he sighs away stubbornly. A light fog hangs over the cul-de-sac, basking the two houses across the street in a sullen hush, and chilly quiet. Their tranquil perfect lawns, dit dotted with decorations appear hazily, as if a mirage. Castiel glances over his bare lawn, his unkempt grass, and brushes off the self-imposed judgement of an equally self-imposed standard to uphold the aesthetic of his yard.

Castiel closes the door as a light comes on in the house across, window glowing yellow, cutting through the gloom. He peruses the headlines of the newspaper, glances over the sports section, and pays more attention to Allegro as he navigates the mawing gape of his hallway to the backyard, his dog corkscrews around his legs, bounces on his paws and barks irritably.

Castiel needs to say nothing as he opens the glass sliding door to his open backyard, and Allegro bolts out. As his dog searches for a suitable spot to relieve himself, Castiel roves the obituaries.

Amanda Corrain, 65, died of a heart attack early in the morning on June 6th, 2018-

He skips to the next one.

Ian Keller, 23, passed away late in the night this last Tuesday after seven hours on the operating table. He lost control of his car near-

Castiel hops to the next.

Nancy Drommund, 72, passed away expectedly in her sleep. She was found by-

He squints, lips pressing flatly.

Oscar Branson, 45, left this world-

Carly Bennet, 36, died prematurely-

Elaine Trivoste, 56, passed away-

Castiel folds up the newspaper curtly, whistles for Allegro, and stews, ruminates, callously critiques the delivery of the news of the obituaries. Allegro trots passed him, in high spirits, second breakfast (or lack thereof) already forgotten.

Castiel dumps the newspaper into his kitchen trashcan and dresses for his day. A soft, dark green sweater over charcoal jeans, and a pair of mud-colored oxford dress boots. He straps a watch round his wrist, leashes his dog and locks his front door.

It’s a short walk in town, and he enjoys listening to the world wake up, sunlight seeping over the horizon like wet paint on a canvas, animals slinking from their slumber, humans carrying thermoses filled to the brim with steaming caffeine…it’s all a movement, a rhapsody with hidden accents, soft pauses, tempo alterations, and inevitably: repetition.

Allegro sniffs passing yards, trees, seemingly mundane spots on the sidewalk and Castiel lets him, in no hurry of his own. The leash, these days, is purely psychological, it hangs from his fingertips limply. Allegro hasn’t strayed from his side in nearly three years.

Which is why Castiel is stupefied, frozen in full-body confusion as Allegro bolts from his grasp and tears into the city, barking like mad. He disappears around a corner, unfollowed such is Castiel’s shock. And then his heart jolts from a steady thump to a panicked gallop. He takes off after his exuberant companion, astonished, still working out what happened.

And then he hears a startled scream from beyond the high brick wall of a fenced in park and his panic rises a few levels, along with his heart-rate, and he picks up his pace, wild-eyed, limbs shaking slightly in anxious energy. Allegro is harmless, never hurt anything in his life, save perhaps a few flies, and some pairs of Castiel’s shoes, but never a person.

He’s rambunctious, overly friendly. But not vicious.

Castiel shoots around the corner, listening for Allegro’s barking, and stops at a break neck pace when he lays eyes on…you. The girl from the elevator that butchered Beethoven.

Allegro is zigzagging around you, jumping up on his hind legs, barking merrily, and…nosing at the brown-paper bag you have clutched securely to your chest like a shield.

Castiel ticks off another cosmic occurrence on the appendages of his left hand. Two within an hour of each other. What’s the rest of his day going to look like?

You’re in much better shape today, it doesn’t appear you have anywhere to be, judging by your apparel. Red skirt over royal blue leggings, chestnut brown boots laced all the way up and tied, white collared shirt starch and tucked into the waistline of your skirt, buttoned nearly to your neck, and a long black pea coat to tie it all together. You have a pastel-yellow satchel swinging from your shoulder, close to sliding off as you readjust yourself, trying to keep your brown bag out of Allegro’s way.

Castiel’s lips quirk softly, quickly, as the strangeness of it all sinks into his mind.

“Down, Cujo! Down!” You peer over your shoulder at the empty park, and down at the dog, the leash clipped to his collar the condition of it. Obstinately clean. So, the leash doesn’t get dragged often, if at all. Must be uncommon for the dog to take off on his own. “Where did you come from?”

A sharp whistle catches your, and the dog’s attention, and you find a man walking towards the both of you, looking equal parts scolding and sheepish.

“Allegro,” He reprimands when he’s close enough to be heard, and the chestnut brown, black-speckled canine barks once, most likely in his own defense. Nevertheless, he trails back to his master.

Castiel meets your slack jawed look with a hint of amusement, only a portion of apology remaining in him. “He usually doesn’t take off like that. Were you humming Beethoven again? Trying to redeem yourself- he’s very protective of the classics,” He’s so funny, uncharacteristically snarky. He pats his dog on the head, “And, you know, sensitive ears and all.”

Again, out of your depth. Attractive men don’t talk to you, fateful occurrences included, so you just gawk.

“But I suppose I should introduce myself at this point before I become Guy-with-the-crazy-dog,” He curls his hand around Allegro’s collar, much to the dog’s dismay and disappointment.

“Too late.” You insert, glancing down at his dog, the happy gape to his jaws, lolling tongue, bright eyes. You smile a bit.

Castiel mirrors your smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “My name is Castiel Novak. And this abrasive gentleman is Allegro.”

His canine barks, and you take it to mean ‘Hello’. Of course, the hello should’ve come first, but you figure he gets his bad manners from his owner.

“Y/N L/N.” You introduce yourself, uncurling a hand from your bag of glutinous bliss, one eye on the dog, the other on him and his deep blues, the sunlight caught in them, bringing out richer hues and subtle striations.

God help you.

His hand is soft, gentle, with hidden strength underneath. There’s a nimbleness to his fingers, a controlled grace. However nimble his fingers may be, they hesitate to unlatch, to let go.

“Not to be intrusive, but what’s in the bag? It’s holding his attention better than anything ever has.” Castiel notes, eyeing the drool literally dripping from Allegro’s hanging tongue.

You test that theory. You raise your arm above your head and his jaws stop moving with his breath, his eyes shoot up. Then left, then right, and then they peer right at you as you hide the bag behind your back.

Castiel stifles a humored grin. You’re a strange one, certainly not afraid to make yourself look foolish.

“It’s a banana muffin, from that bakery down on third,” You tell him and his eyes spark with recognition, his pale pink lips quirk with gentle nostalgia. “The owner gives me a discount, mostly ‘cause I pretend not to notice his shameless flirting,” You continue, locked in a staring contest with a slap-happy canine trying to magic that muffin out of your hands with his pleading eyes. You’re about ready to cave.

Castiel blinks, slightly taken aback by the information, feeling a shudder wind its way up his spine. He steals a glance at Allegro, the awe and vigor held at bay only by the hand he has securely wrapped around his leather collar, and he finds himself speaking before he can properly think of the words coming out of his mouth.

“There’s a café, attached to a bookstore a couple blocks from here,” His not-thought-out statement and lack of plan gives his voice this blasé tone: as if he’s discussing weather and not about to ask you on a date of sorts. He hasn’t realized he’s about to do that. “You could get a coffee to go with your muffin- it’s pet friendly so Allegro could pester you the whole way to the counter, and I’m related to the owner so I could you a discount, no flirting involved.” _Ugh. Just- ugh. What the hell am I doing-?_ He regards Allegro with a mix of helplessness and blame, _This is completely your fault._

You beam at him, glowing with a sense of disbelief and excitement. “I love getting things at a discount! You related to anyone else in town?”

Castiel’s gaze jolts up to you, “Uh-” he stutters, your sudden heightened mood throwing him off-balance. Your eyes dance with joy and a child-like glee for adventure and he finds the way it makes light play on your irises enchanting. A strip of your hair falls free of its bun, kinked and curled from the hair-tie and something about it is so carefree and lively that he smiles. “That I’m aware of, no.”

Your mood isn’t be deterred. Still grinning, you crouch down, balancing on your heels to get eye-level with Allegro who grows restless, a little more rambunctious. You reach into your paper bag and pull out the muffin, he shifts, sniffs avidly, and you peel away the wrapping paper.

It’s still warm, the glaze gooey- Allegro whines quietly, plaintively, and you fold your hand of cards readily. You glance up at Castiel for confirmation, and he just shrugs a shoulder, _why not?_

“Easy,” he commands Allegro- the canine meets his expression for the briefest of seconds, eyes connecting, _Got it_ -and finally releases his collar.

Allegro is gentle as he clamps that lumpy muffin between his teeth, tosses his head back to maneuver it into his mouth, and _chomp, chomp, chomps_ it away greedily. This almost beats steaks and peanut butter. Almost.

When you stand up, he looks at you. _More? More? You have more? I want more._ He sniffs at you, shoves his nose into your hand, at your coat pockets, and huffs petulantly when he comes up empty.

It’s only the tugging on his leash that pulls him away from you, he cranes his neck, wants to say goodbye- Wait! You’re following. You’re coming too!

He barks happily, ears perked, and then looks at Castiel, _Look-look! She’s coming!_

Ah, the simple joy of dogs. If only he could find happiness that easily.

You’ve taken to making small talk, asking where he lives, who his relation is at the coffee shop, how he came to own Allegro. What is he doing out so early? He answers all your queries easily, promptly, with a ready tone and polite smile, just the right amount of eye contact, chivalrous space between you.

He takes the half of the sidewalk closer to the road, puts Allegro in the middle, even though it means he’ll have to go around both of you to get the door, and he does, shooting you a smile that says, _It’s no trouble_ after your sheepish thank you and self-conscious shuffle through the threshold.

It’s cozy inside, few patrons grace the shop, and those that are here are staring haggardly into their steaming porcelain mugs, close to the brink of dissociation. He can relate, truly. Allegro sticks his nose in the air, perusing all the mixing scents with gusto.

The floor is a burnt orange, diamonds of aqua situated in the middle of the tiles. It’s meant to wake up sleepy patrons that find their gazes sliding downwards, if not contrasting colors, then at the very least the sheer ugliness will wake them up in need to be critiqued. The walls are a cranberry red, with a black baseboard and headboard.

There’s no cheesy art, or eye-roll worthy inspirational quotes. It’s all landscapes, city studies, the random patron’s dog, a very picturesque cup of coffee.

Rectangular tables jut out of the walls on the perimeter of the lobby, and a long booth sits in the dead center, circular tables dot its length. Little caddies hold sugar in wire baskets of all colors, bright and obnoxious, but undeniably cheerful. The chairs are the plainest things in here: cobalt blue, wooden, chipping in places, with black and white checkered cushions.

“Wow,” You say, sweeping your gaze slowly along the establishment, taking it all in with each breath of bitter, earthy coffee beans being grinded up and the artificial sweeteners added to take the edge off. “Wow.” You say again for effect when you meet Castiel’s squinting eyes and lips pressed flat in _knowing._

He nods furtively, the motion mostly chin, and clears his throat. “It seems very mismatched, but when you meet Gabriel, it won’t surprise you so much.”

Castiel ghosts his way to the front counter, Allegro trotting faithfully beside, sniffing at people he passes, prompting smiles and soft chuckles. He rings the bell, pointlessly, because he’s staring at his brother’s back, weighing his desire to be annoying, and his desire to be someone you view as respectable.

When Castiel is treated to a waving hand, like Gabriel is swatting at a fly, he decides he can sacrifice some of his vanity.

_Ding!_

“Yeah-” Another flippant wave of the hand.

Castiel smirks, leans into the counter and cocks his head smugly.

_Ding-ding-dingdingdingding!_

“Goddamnit, the world isn’t ending-!” Gabriel grumbles, tossing an empty bag of coffee beans to the floor in a silly tantrum. “One cup of Joe isn’t going to make the difference between you getting a raise and staying the same level of mediocre-average you’ve always been, Brenda!” He gestures with his hands as he vents, only just stopping himself from shooting the bird over his shoulder as he goes about checking his stock of syrups.

You stifle a giggle behind your hand, and Castiel shoots you a pleased grin. Allegro is smearing his nose along the display glass, making eyes at the pastries.

“But I really deserve that raise,” Castiel says with a final ring of the bell.

Gabriel stiffens, shoulders hiking, and then they slump with the exhalation of his breath, subdued laughter making them shake. “You know what you can do with that raise?” He says, the question purely rhetorical. He spins, grin painted on with a familial spark of incoming teasing that halts when his hazel eyes d _riiiift_ to you, linger.

And then that spark is a wildfire.

Oh no.

“You need that raise ‘cause you bribed this beautiful woman into going on a date?” Gabriel plants his forearms on the table and tilts his body with his cocked head, allowing him to look at you past Castiel’s form.

Castiel rolls his eyes, folds his arms over his chest, ever patient.

You clear your throat, “Actually, I’m just here for Allegro,” You shrug, shooting Castiel a teasing smile, letting him know you’re joking. “Castiel’s the third-wheel.”

Gabriel snorts, grins at you and your readiness to throw his brother under the bus. He points at you, levels Castiel with a meaningful stare that’s still accented with good-humor and says, “I like her.”

Castiel quirks a brow, two can play this game of sacrificing another to the undercarriage of a metaphorical bus. “She goes to the bakery, down on third-” Gabriel’s mouth loses its upward curve like you’ve just set fire to one of his tables and your stomach twists, “-She gets discounts because she lets Marv flirt with her.”

Gabriel stares at you in horror, he looks close to retching honestly. “Oh, honey. Not worth it-”

Castiel’s eyes glint mischievously, “How much of a discount _does_ he give you?”

Under both their scrutinizing gazes, heavy with judgement and disappointment, you feel rightfully betrayed.

You blink hard at the both of them. “Ten.”

Castiel shakes his head, Gabriel lays a hand to his forehead and looks dramatically crestfallen.

You glower at them both. “This is why you’re the third wheel, Castiel.”

Gabriel smirks beneath his woeful demeanor and pins you with an earnest look. “Twenty percent. I will give you a perpetual twenty percent discount.”

Castiel gawks, side-lining your shock and quickly approaching squeal of happiness. “Twenty? You only give me fifteen!” He remarks incredulously, sounding put-off at the same time.

Gabriel shrugs. “Yeah, well, she’s prettier than you. And she’s had to put up with Marv hitting on her.” He dawns an apologetic crease in his brows for you, “For ten percent, Cas. Ten. This woman’s a trooper.”

He concedes on that front, offers you a sympathetic smile and tells you, “Just for the record, I’m still buying.”

Your lips tilt skyward, “What a great third wheel.”

Gabriel guffaws, gives Castiel a serious nod. “Keep her.”

Castiel orders an americano, a fruit parfait minus the nuts, and you order a caramel macchiato with an extra pump of syrup. Gabriel approves. Before he starts on the drinks and Cas’ parfait, he takes an older blueberry muffin from the display case and tosses it to Allegro with a wink.

As you and Castiel wander into the attached bookstore, Gabriel stares at your backs with a muddy mixture of confusion and hope. Cas hasn’t brought anyone in to the café in nearly a year. He wonders why now? Has something changed? Maybe his brother is just tired of living in solidarity, the crushing monotony of it? Maybe Castiel is just ready to give the inevitable a middle finger salute?

Whatever the case, Gabriel lets himself be a fraction calmed, his naïve heart warmed a little at the notion. Castiel deserves a little good in his life, especially after all the shit he’s gone through these last couple of years.

Shaking his head free of cobwebs, he gets started on your order, snagging a lollipop from the cup next to the register to chew on, along with his thoughts.

Castiel tucks one hand into his slacks, the other twists Allegro’s leash around his around his hand. He might be just the tad bit paranoid about it now. There’s a small table in front of the door that houses knick-knacks and pens and the two of you stop a moment to peruse. There’s an old-fashioned ink-well pen that catches Castiel’s attention, along with different pen tips and three colors of ink.

A couple blocks of homemade soap and hand-sized journals snatches your eye. There are a couple of ink stamps, randomly tossed into a wide mouth bowl and you begin pawing through them. Something about tiny things makes you smile, and the designs are so cute, you can’t help yourself; you snag a couple. An eighth note, and a smiling bumblebee.

Castiel finds something charmingly sweet about your selection and it makes the corners of his mouth twitch with the desire to smile. But, your stamp selection reminds him of a curiosity he wants to sate concerning you.

“So, when you were humming Beethoven,” He begins gently, picking up a feathered quill in feinted interest, “You a lover of the classics, or are you learning to play it?”

You pause in your appreciation of another music-oriented stamp- a treble cleft -and look at him. “Yes, and I already know how to play it, thank you. It’s the humming it that’s impossible.” You grin, unreserved, a fiery new life taking root in your eyes.

Castiel stares, as if he doesn’t fully believe you. “You play?” He asks it carefully, like he’s walking into a minefield blindfolded.

 You nod vigorously, “Since I was a kid. Everyone else on the block was riding bikes and climbing trees; collecting bruises,” You smile wistfully, drawing on your memory bank of the music room you spent a great deal of your childhood inhabiting. The smell of wood varnish, old books with yellowed pages, the sound of music sheets ruffling in the wind of the open window on the left-hand side of the room… “I’d play until my hands cramped. And then I’d play some more, proud that I was getting some kind of physical reminder of my happiness like those kids falling off of tree limbs on a dare.”

Castiel’s eyes are widened, riveted. He thinks you and him would have gotten along in your childhood swimmingly. He used to sneer at those kids running around in the sunshine, wasting their time playing tag. He found himself pleased with his time at the piano bench, playing and playing a piece until he wrung the soul of it dry, and poured his own into it. He recalls those early mornings, sneaking into the dining room to play the piano, learning to play pianissimo so as not to wake the whole house. He remembers, fondly, playing into the late hours of the night, eyelids drooping even as his young hands flew across the keys…he’d fall asleep under the piano when he grew too tired to carry himself up the stairs to bed.

A corner of his mouth quirks upward, wry at the coincidence of it all. He drops his nostalgic countenance to the table, replaces the quill. “You sound like a masochist.”

You peer at him critically, stick your tongue out, sure he can’t see it (he can), “What about you? Do you play?”

Castiel restrains himself from snickering in irony. Does he play? _Does he play?_ “I do,” he looks at you from under his lashes, taking in your waiting expression, the curiosity deepening the richness of your eyes until they’re entrapping as a sun kissed pond. He’s staring, he realizes, a few seconds after it’s become awkward, possibly uncomfortable.

Thankfully, Gabriel saves him, breaks the moment as he calls your name, setting your cup on the counter. Castiel’s is there too, as well as his parfait, and the blue-eyed pianist quirks a brow at Gabriel’s focused staring.

You pass Castiel, chipper and anxious to try your coffee, and Castiel trails after you, frowning with his whole face at Gabriel’s obsessed staring.

When you’re both close enough, Gabriel picks up his drink, smirks, and calls out, loud enough to wake up the sleepy patrons, “Third wheel!” He turns a few inquisitive heads, much to Castiel’s chagrin.

You snort, and make a hasty retreat, leaving Castiel to bear the brunt of Gabriel’s mockery.

Castiel rolls his eyes heavenward, the motion speaking volumes. “You’re dead to me,” he says, knee-jerk, and takes the hot cup from Gabriel’s outstretched hand.

Gabe’s smile falters at the jab, the unthought of implications, but he musters some brotherly fortitude and replies, “That’s ironic.”

Another eye roll, an unimpressed flattening of pale lips, and Castiel snatches his parfait with practiced aloofness. He chuckles in the back of his throat, grateful for the consistency of some things, “Thanks, Gabe.”

The hazel-eyed troublemaker leans into the counter again, bracing all his weight on his forearms, he nods amiably at his brother’s back, “Sure, Cas.” Gabe watches his brother slide back up to you, ask something (something probably lame because it’s Cas), and it launches you into a vibrant re-enactment, hands moving, expressions big, tone cheerier than a church bell- Gabe wonders if it’s worth it, in the long run.

But he catches Castiel’s visage as he turns to muffle a laugh into his shoulder- eyes crinkled, his deep blues alight with mirth, countenance eased of all worry and somber thought -and washes his hands of it. Actually wipes his hands on his barista apron, steals another lollipop from the jar and ignores the ticking clock. He’s thinking about tossing it, honestly. He hates the sound it makes.

“There’s giant leather-bound compilations of authors’ works in the back corner,” He tells you, after hearing of your enthusiasm for Edgar Allen Poe. The excitement you display for him- head turned, point over your shoulder in question, he nods, and you take off -it’s like a refreshing breath of sweet spring air. How he’s gone all these years in this dreary town without committing suicide from the sheer dullness of it, he’ll never know.

His reason for telling you about the books is two-fold. One is the books themselves, the other, he’s pleased to see you’ve noticed upon reaching the back corner, is the well-loved cherry red grand piano. Music books are laid in a haphazard pile on a table next to it, looking just one more Opus away from falling to the floor in a failed musical version of Jenga.

Allegro is very familiar with this piano as well, he steps around the books piled carelessly underneath it, and lays down in the only empty spot on the Greek Key rug. The staff had pointedly cleared a spot for Allegro after Castiel’s fourth visit to the store. It’s known as ‘Allegro’s Spot’ and no one is allowed to put anything on it. No one. If they do, they’re faced with the soul crushing guilt of watching Allegro try to fit somewhere underneath, amid the maze of books. And it is soul crushing.

Castiel carefully runs the tip of his index finger along the edge of the raised lid, looks at you emphatically, knowing the temptation all too well. Especially if you still harbor that love for music you had in your childhood.

The abrupt drop of your satchel bag to the floor and your enamored gaze informs him that you are, in fact, still madly in love with music. He’s smug, pleased with himself to an embarrassing degree.

At least until you hold your cup out to him to hold, focus trained on the keys, no attention on him.

He scoffs, a rueful furrowing of his brow takes his pride down a few notches. He takes your cup, “I _am_ the third wheel,” he says, mostly to himself in ridiculous astonishment. Just his luck.

You briefly meet his eyes, “If the cup fits.” You look emphatically at his cup and he raises a brow before he spins it towards himself.

“Oh- just. That’s nice,” He grouches, scowling at the neat scrawl of a sharpie pen near the lid of his cup: _The Third Wheel._ “Thanks, Gabe.”

There’s no music on the stand, but you pay it no mind. You don’t play from a sheet. Paper is not music. True enough that it’s transcribed onto paper for easy access, but music comes from the soul.

Castiel waits with bated breath, until he remembers something of slight importance. “It’s a little out of tune,” he says like an apology.

You nod curtly. “I can work around that.”

He watches your hands rise in one fluid motion from your lap and then tumble like the torrent of a waterfall down the keys, hitting every white tooth with benevolent intent. A staircase of notes, winding up, seemingly too fast to pin-point the individuality of each key, but-

You nod again, “Got it.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. Bullshit, you do. It took him a good fifteen minutes to alter his playing to something that wasn’t torture on his ears. No way you just-

The first note hits his ears, followed in fluid succession by the next and the next, perfectly played, not a note out of place. Tempo is modulated, right where it should be. Your hands traverse gaps of ridiculous length in order to fix the mess of out of tune chords, find keys that wouldn’t normally work in a masterful bid to play this impromptu piece the way it should be.

Your eyes slide closed as you draw the soul of the piano out in tender perfection, hands steady, sure, quick and reverent.

God, your hands.

Castiel watches them in fascination, near worship. It’s like they were tailor made to play the piano, crafted for just this one purpose so practiced and unflawed as they are. Another large gap that would create a fissure in the tempo, a break in the piece that would take him a few seconds to traverse and correct, but not you. Your hands fly, a blur, but they’re so controlled, not a single key is accidently played.

Good God. He thinks he feels his soul leave his body.

It’s glorious. The way that you play, the way you’ve already lost yourself, pulled into the dance, the courtship of musician and instrument, of give and take, the balance of power and submission. The churning sensation much like that of a watermill as musician plucks the anatomy of an instrument, and the instrument threads the emotions of the musician into palpable purpose.

You’re on the piano, but Castiel swears he can hear the symphony that accompanies this piece, swears that you hear it too. You have too, how else could you possibly play it so gracefully, so attuned, so passionately?

Your hair tumbles out of its bun, hair tie falling to the floor, but Castiel doesn’t think you even notice. You’re too far in, swimming through the progressions, floating through the movements, twisting with the tempo, rising with the key changes, breathing in the pauses, diving back in with the seamless tied notes…

Allegro is near asleep underneath the piano, head resting on his paws, ears twitching ever so often. Castiel is too awestruck to consider a nap, to consider closing his eyes for even one moment. He’s afraid he’ll miss a life-changing note, miss a heart-stopping accent, or a soul rendering measure.

The cashier at the checkout is smiling broadly, leaning over the counter to watch you, and the few customers that are browsing pause to crane their necks, curiosity getting the better of them.

Gabriel, he’s standing on the threshold of the café and the bookstore, watching Castiel’s expressions shift as he watches and listens to you play. Gabe is impressed beyond words. He’s heard Castiel play, heard him mature over the years…but you…your playing is otherworldly, and puts Castiel in a dim limelight. Gabe beams in your general direction, beams at Castiel’s entranced visage.

Hell, if Castiel doesn’t ask you out within the next week, Gabe will snatch you up. He will. Even though he doesn’t feel half as much as what Castiel does about music…well, maybe not. The way you play…your heart and soul are pouring out of that piano, and Gabe doesn’t think he’s spiritually attuned enough to be near someone so ethereal.

Yeah, he’ll stick to making coffee, flirting with the occasional customer or two.

Castiel’s eyes are closed, travelling in his mind’s eye along the sheet music of the piece you’re playing, tracking it, following it seamlessly with your rendition to its completion, those last two measures of notes which you play with an accent, an added punch, a tone of fortified finality. There will be no repeat. Which is fine, he heard every note. Though, he really wouldn’t protest another performance from you.

Your hands rest just a moment on the edge of the keys, a lingering want, a silent thank you to the instrument itself. When you open your eyes, the world fades back in, sense by sense, slowly, as if strained through molasses. 

Castiel releases a pent-up breath, expelling his awe and wonder, releasing himself from the wondrous cocoon of wordless emotion. He hasn’t taken a single drink of his coffee, his parfait is room temperature, but…he has no wants. His needs have been filled by music.

He observes you enter the worldly atmosphere, as if floating down from a cloud, a dreamy glaze to your eyes, a wistful tilt to your mouth, hair loose and draped over your shoulders, framing your face which is flushed the barest shade of pink. He understands, you bared yourself in your playing, laid your soul upon the altar for sacrifice.

And it was _beautiful._

He can hardly believe you’re the same woman that stumbled into the elevator appearing like you fought with the entirety of your wardrobe and lost and smelling faintly like hazelnut due to the spilled coffee on your coat sleeve, humming Beethoven willy-nilly. He can hardly believe. But here you sit.

Sheepishly, you run a hand through your hair, clear your throat. Allegro peeks one eye open at you, emotion in his rich brown orb oddly human, appreciative, praising. You tuck some hair behind your ear, and then realize belatedly- “Where’s my hair tie?”

Castiel snickers, covering his admiration with a sip of his coffee. He points to the floor behind you.

You leave the bench hastily, somewhat self-conscious, like you’ve peacocked your ability to play. You don’t want to come across as a show off.

“Certainly better than your vocal rendition of Beethoven,” he hands you your cup, smirking. It’s not the compliment he wants to pay you, but it’s the one he settles for, the safer option, for you both.

You huff at him, take a hefty swallow, glare at a random bookshelf and then point obstinately at he piano. “Your turn.”

Castiel hums, “I think not. We came back here for the books. It’s not my fault you have no self-control.” He whistles for Allegro, and then waltzes away. _Away._ From the very books he claimed you both came back here for.

You gawk at him, incredulous. And then you march after him- stop, pivot, grab your bag off the floor -and renew your fiery gait. “Next time,” You say, tone firm, when you reach his side.

He cocks his head at you, “Next time?”

You nod adamantly, “Next time you’re going to play.”

His eyes take on an impish gleam, crease at he corners, “I am, am I?”

You adjust the shoulder strap of your bag, and harden your expression, stopping just at the door where he is. Standing. Looking all smug, like he knows something. “Yes, you _are._ ”

Castiel hums again, holds your gaze, his expression very Cheshire Cat, he nods at the cashier in implication, “You going to buy those stamps you put in your pocket, or should I add ‘Kleptomaniac’ to the growing list of questionable qualities you have?”

You look horrified with yourself, shove your hand into your coat pocket- sure enough, those stamps are there. Your cheeks flame. “When did I- I’m not a kleptomaniac. I just forgot.” You protest, turning on your heel.

“Well, that’s exactly what a klepto would say.” Castiel teases, eyebrows canted upwards.

You all but stomp to check-out and Castiel smiles at your back, your flustered motions of paying for something you almost accidently stole, and chuckles heartily. He pretends not to notice Gabriel staring at him from the attached building, no doubt gathering ammunition for the future.

You trudge back to him, plastic bag swinging from your wrist. You non-chalantly sip from your cup, and Castiel tips his chin at you,

“Ready this time?”

“Shut up. You’re mean.” You retort childishly, glowering mildly at the door behind him.

He laughs outright, nods and opens the door with a kick of his foot. He tilts his head in goodbye at his brother, and you turn to wave at him with a smile, serendipitous.

He has a schedule to keep- _had_ a schedule to keep. But he relinquishes his iron like grip on his plans, and instead lets the cosmic nature of his day continue, lead by you. You tripped into his life, a crescendo of subtle proportion, wrapped up like a late Christmas gift, piquing his curiosity and confusion like snow in the middle of August.

His life, a movement, a perpetual andante flow, played pianissimo…has ended. _Molto vivace, Castiel_ , he thinks, listening to you jabber about the time you broke a heel and faceplanted into a city mailbox like it was the craziest thing that ever happened in the history of the world. He notes, tardily, that you’re wearing heels today, and he keeps his eyes peeled for blue mailboxes with a wry smiling tugging his slightly chapped lips.

Cosmic. Such is his life, thanks to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really in love with this, already. I'm in trouble, much like Cas. Help. Much love to you all! <3 <3


	3. Decrescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There comes a time when a man has to ask himself what he's leaving behind when he's gone. That time is now, and Castiel has no answer. He's never had much luck living in the now, and true to his nature, he takes a trip to visit an old friend only to find more questions, and feeling more lost and alone than he has in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a very clear idea of where this chapter was supposed to go...and then it didn't go there. -_-'   
> All in all, I still like it. Curious, isn't it?

He takes a drive, out of the city and past the rolling landscape, past the lonely fields of drying grass and weeds the color of wheat. The town and surrounding countryside were experiencing a draught, and Castiel could relate wholeheartedly to the land’s thirst. He licks across his parched lips, wincing at the tenderness and the sting. Allegro does not share his master’s predicament. His head is out the open passenger window, wind rushing through his fur, tongue lolling out of his mouth and flapping in the wind like a meaty banner. Flecks of saliva fly off the end of his tongue and corners of his jowls.

The cab of his car is graced with quiet music, for once, something not classical. But the lyrics are raw, poetic, and the singer’s voice is so rich and earthy Castiel has no trouble listening. It might also have something to do with the fact that you recommended the artist to him little over three days ago. He’s spent a hefty amount of time listening to the songwriter, trying to get a feel for you through your music taste.

He isn’t disappointed.

Castiel would’ve expected something light and happy, and thoughtless, something carefree in your music taste, but you’ve surprised him once again. His fingers tap along to the rhythm of the song, his mind’s eye drifting elsewhere, dipping into archives of time long since passed and dusted with a firm coating of nostalgia.

It makes the back of his throat ache, the memories that rise up unbidden, the sorrow clinging to the last vestiges of happiness, like the dying rays of the sun in the approaching night.

He recalls, suddenly, the one fateful night at a bar he had no business being in, the weight of the glass in his hand, the scratched top of the bar-counter, and the raucous noise of too many bodies packed into one space, the heat, the stifling aroma of alcohol and regrets so sentient they could walk up and order a drink.

He remembers the strangeness, the out of place scent of vanilla and lavender among all the grittiness and grime. How odd it was for such a subtle smell to cling to the slight frame of a woman with hair as red as fire. How his life in that definitive moment changed when he spoke to her.

His fingers curl around the steering wheel, go bone-white at the knuckles.

The sky is overcast, a stretch of pigeon grey that branches from one end of the horizon to the other, nary a speck of a cloud, no break in the bleakness, no promise of warmth in the chilly breeze that roars in from the open window.

Farther, he drives, not knowing why. The trips north have never been worthwhile, they sap his strength, his mood, claw the vibrancy from his mind with dull, harsh claws.

The house comes into view far before he’s prepared to lay eyes on it. White brick and weathered, a brown slat roof. Windows sat high in the walls, diamond paned and dark with curtains drawn. A crumbling stone wall encases the homestead, ripe with unruly vines and morning glories aching for a place to grow.

The land rises behind the house, a steep incline rounds out to a small plateau from which you can watch the lake shimmer and shine, ripple in the wind. Just a scant mile from the shoreline you can catch the scent of the sea if it’s been a stormy day out on the water. It’s close enough that the inhabitant of the house can pretend he’s home, and not stranded on a completely different continent, cut off from what he loves.

Castiel idles, along with his car engine, at the end of the drive, watching the house breath, feeble and slow. Allegro whines plaintively, barks once, and hops out of the window to race towards the front door.

With his day decided for him, Castiel kills the car and gets out, pulling his jacket tighter against the biting wind. He hopes the house is warm.

Allegro is pawing at the door when he arrives, up on hind legs to drag his nails along the faded wood. Castiel pats his head and knocks, “Callum, you awake?” He waits on the gruff response he’s become so accustomed to: angry grumbling and cursing brought to him on a mean Irish accent and the door flung open so fast the hinges screech.

He waits. Allegro barks, and Castiel waits some more. He knocks again when a chill slices into him. “Callum?” he deliberates, shakes off his uncertainty and tries the knob. The door opens easily.

Allegro rushes in, whining and barking softly as he tears through the darkened home led by his nose. Castiel squints, leaving the door open behind him. The house is freezing. He wanders in, feeling a shudder winding its way up his spine that he knows has nothing to do with the cold.

The dining table is empty aside from a stone-cold mug of tea, completely full and gone stagnant. A basket of hanging fruit is brown and soft, and attracting gnats. A pile of wood sits untouched by the wood-stove and Castiel swallows thickly.

Allegro barks further inside the house, loud and tight, and quickly; Castiel rushes toward him. The back room, the bedroom. Even before he reaches the door he knows something is off: the door is wide open, which is uncharacteristic for the Irishman who holds his privacy and solitude sacred.

Pale sunlight cuts a gloomy rectangle of light into the hallway, the only source of illumination in the whole house.

“Callum.” He rounds the doorjamb and his eyes land squarely on his prickly friend. What’s left of him.

Callum sits immobile in a simple wooden chair, facing out the window, a gaping hole in the back of his head. A revolver lays on the floor at his feet, arms dangling uselessly at his sides. Blood is spattered across the ceiling, along with bits of brain matter, the floor too holds pieces of the man he once was.

Allegro noses at the man’s thigh, begging and yelping softly.

Bile rises in the back of Castiel’s throat, he clings to the doorjamb. “Allegro.” He croaks, and snaps his fingers twice: the nonverbal equivalent to ‘Come.’ His four-legged companion listens, and crowds at his legs, vibrating with confusion and sadness.

Castiel’s jaw tingles with nausea, and he clamps a hand around his mouth, unable to stop staring at the mess of his old friend’s skull. On the bed, a mere four feet away lays a note on simple notebook paper but Castiel can’t bring himself to step farther into the room.

With fumbling fingers and ragged breath, Castiel calls 911. The dial tone has barely ended before he’s talking, “I’d like to report a suicide.” His voice is empty of feeling, dull with shock, even as his eyes well.

When the authorities arrive he’s standing outside, shivering in the wind, nose and eyes red. He answers their questions in stupefied fashion. What’s his relation to the victim? _Old friends._ What was he doing here? _Visiting._ Was there anything to suggest that Callum was suicidal? _He was alone, bout as good a reason as any._ Did the gun belong to Callum? _I don’t know. I’ve never seen it._ Does he have any kin? _Not living._ The letter was written to you. Would you like- _No…no._

It’s all very methodical. The covering of the body, the removal of the corpse, loading it into an ambulance, roping off the area with yellow-tape. The ambulance takes off, lights unused, and a small squadron of police cars follow.

One last customary question: Are you alright? Do you have anyone you can- Do you have anyone?

A stiff nod of affirmation before he shuffles to his car, Allegro trailing behind. He sits in stupefied silence for a solid five minutes, wondering the truth of his words. He also wonders how many days away he is from becoming Callum. How many more calculated mornings, how many more lonely hours at the piano, how many readings of obituaries before he sits himself down in some un-notable chair and calls it all a failure. He figures the number is rather low.

He turns the engine over, body on auto-pilot as he pulls out of the drive and turns his vehicle homeward, the sun dipping lower towards the horizon. Time seemed to have slowed down, but in reality it had carried on, callously like it always does, and he’s lost hours. He’s lost an entire day almost.

He’s detached, feeling boneless, like a puppet cut free from the strings of its marionette. He’s an hour out, with nothing to fill the quiet but his thoughts. He makes a knee-jerk decision that chases some of the chill away.

His phone is up to his ear, ringing, and he waits with his breath held captive inside his ribcage like a secret of disastrous proportion.

“Hello?”

Is it odd that he could pick your voice out of a crowd of hundreds? Probably. He reassures himself he could only do it if you were humming Beethoven. Because that makes it better.

“Y/N,” Wow. He’s so suave, isn’t he? Just saying your name like he’s noting the weather, or telling someone what his favorite color is. Impressive.

There’s a smile in your voice, he can hear it when you reply, “Castiel. Now that we’ve got names out of the way, let’s get deep. If you woke up tomorrow and were, inexplicably, a woman what’s the first thing you would do?”

Pitter patter of water droplets pelt his windshield. He squints, “Have a heart-attack.”

You blow a raspberry into his ear, “Poo. You’re boring.”

He’s quiet for a moment, one moment long enough for you to get side-tracked and begin humming cheerily. Some nameless tune that speaks of merriness and laid-back contentment, free of worry and dark thoughts. “Y/N,”

“Hu- yes? Yyeeah?”

Castiel turns his wipers on, the scraggly metal fingers beating back and forth in a measured rhythm. He watches them a moment, instead of the road, and envisions you how he wants: sitting at some simple desk, curled up in a chair, hair pulled into a messy bun and laptop open as you squander your time on the internet. He sighs, “Is it raining where you are?”

A thoughtful pause, a chair creaks. Shit. Was he right about the desk.

“Yes, it is! The sky is a bit depressing,” You remark, voice still carrying sunshine and pep.

He wishes he could be where you are, where the cold doesn’t touch, where life is always vibrant and kind, and wonderful. “Can you make this conversation less depressing?”

You huff into the speaker indignantly, “You’re the one that asked about the shitty weather.”

His lips twitch faintly, “Up north the sky is always grey, and the sun is constantly hiding like a shy child behind a blanket of clouds so smooth they blend into the dismal horizon like smeared paint.” He doesn’t even know what the hell he’s saying or why. And he can’t blame it on Allegro this time.

“…I…I’m sorry you’re up north, then.” Is your confused, slightly sympathetic reply.

Castiel rolls his eyes, “Why? Because it’s so different in town? Prove it.” _Prove that there’s more to life than grey, and cold, and death. Prove it._

“Fine, Mr. Grumpy Gills.”

Castiel cocks an eyebrow, _Grumpy Gills?_

“Down the hall, Mr. and Mrs. Gleeson dance along to Benny Goodman on record like they’re still young, their laughter carries all the way down. And no one minds the noise-”

Castiel blinks at his murky windshield, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“-Below, on the sidewalk, someone carries an umbrella bright as school bus- and they’re twirling, spinning, water flying in all directions. I can see their fire engine red rainboots peek out from underneath as they kick up rain.”

Castiel casts a side-long look at Allegro, his canine’s nose is pressed flat to the cold window, smudging it with every minute jostle of the car. A smile tugs at his mouth.

“Someone inside the apartment complex is baking, and the smell of cinnamon wafts up through the floorboards, it makes me think of holidays at home with my family,” Here, you pause, sit in a memory soaked in nostalgia and a sense of belonging. A flutter of activity outside your window draws you back into the present with gentle coaxing.

“Outside, right now, on my windowsill two birds roost in the minuscule corner, taking shelter from the rain. They may even sleep to wait out the storm.”

Castiel ruminates on what you’ve given him, the flip-side of his perspective. How you’ve found peace and happiness within the dreariest aspect of weather- and how you’ve brightened his dull and somber day with but a few words, he’ll never know. But it doesn’t mean he appreciates it any less.

He supposes there’s something pure in the rain, something wholesome. He relents that it does give life to things buried and wanting, parched and dying for a second chance. If nothing else, it’s refreshing, peaceful to listen to.

Even as the house disappears in his rear-view, Castiel can feel the dread in his stomach of having walked down that hallway, once dark green carpet faded to sea green, that dim sliver of light piercing the darkness of the gloomy abode with facetious promise.

The bank will most likely take the house back. With no relatives, he no use for a will, no one to write in. No one to carry his belongings, or his stories, no one to carry the last vestiges of his life into a new state of being. Callum Mooney would leave nothing behind, to anyone. Here one day, and gone the next, for reasons unknown.

Castiel thinks of that note sitting on the end of the bed. It was addressed to him. Callum had written his suicide letter out to Castiel, and the pianist felt equals parts sick and sorry about the entire deal. He wonders, now that he’s out of the house and put distance between himself and the gore spattered room, what Callum had said.

He wonders what the gruff and prickly Irishman really had to say to him. They were his last words, and now they were probably in some evidence bag in a storage room at the police station in town, tucked away in flimsy cardboard box- Castiel’s hand clenches around the steering wheel.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Castiel says, meaning to sound grateful, but his voice tumbles out cheaply, like he’s just trying to cover silence instead of carry the conversation to its next segue.

“Castiel?” There’s a shrill hiss on your end, something in the background, a high-pitched scream. You’re making tea, he realizes, and it prompts a tiny smile from him: the old-fashioned notions you have.

“Yes?” The landscape is so achingly empty he feels a tired sadness well up in his gut. So much room for life and vibrancy and opportunity and its all just wilting away, given up and defeated by neglect.

At the window with a steaming mug in one hand- white with black scrawl, _Life without music would B_ _♭_ _-_ you watch those two little sparrows tuck together, water droplets rolling off their oily downy feathers, and lift your countenance upwards towards the bleak skyscape, “You should spend some time in the rain, appreciate it while it’s here,”

Castiel flicks his wipers to a higher setting and slows his car, nearly glaring out his windshield, looking for that stop sign that’s supposed to be around here somewhere. “While it’s here? What does that mean?”

You lean your forehead into the glass of your window and expel a breath, fogging the pane. “Don’t you pay attention to the weather? We’re due for a heat wave, apparently, it’s going to last for a week straight.”

He can’t see anything worthwhile. “Hm. Guess it’s a good thing I have air-conditioning.”

“Castiel?” Your tone is cautious, wary, jilted with an emotion that speaks far beyond the mundane nature of the conversation at hand.

“Y/N?” He wishes he could see you, strange and abrupt as the desire is. Not as abrupt, or as strange, he wants to hear you play again. He can dimly imagine the magic you could elicit out of a piano that’s in tune. He’d pay money for that.

“Are you alright? You sound…distracted.” You look down at the tea in your mug, dark and spiced with nutmeg, too hot to drink.

Castiel contemplates telling you, in that moment, about his friend. About the day he’s having, he considers telling you of his fear of leaving behind nothing when he’s gone. He wonders what you’d say if he told you that most days he wishes he’d be taken out by some freak accident, like a runaway trashcan barreling down a steep hill at him, or the cap on a fire hydrant busting off and knocking him unapologetically into the afterlife. Or more ironically, a piano falling on him.

He’d be able to laugh about that death on the other side. He’d probably laugh himself to death all over again.

He wants to tell you how tired he is, how pathetically, completely, perpetually tired he is with everything in his life. How tired he is of his alarm clock, and strict diet, his unforgivable workout plan, how tired he is of the daily paper and the climbing number of obits. He wants to tell you how tired he is of himself.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I’m driving,” and feels like an ass for a dodging your question, and dodging the honesty he’s been dying to let out of him for the past five months.

“Oh. Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Castiel smirks, “Shouldn’t what? Drive? Or talk to you?”

You growl at him, “You shouldn’t do both at the same time!”

He chuckles into the receiver, “You want me to pull over so we can continue our happy chat about the shit weather?”

“You’re an ass,” You sigh into the phone, rolling your eyes to high heavens.

“Yes, I am.” Castiel smiles softly, car stopped at a four-way, “About the rain, Y/N,”

He pauses on his end, breath near-silent as his thoughts take over and his ability to communicate is hi-jacked by the spinning of the hamster wheel inside his mind. He’s always thinking, you’ve come to realize, always. It’s no wonder the man sports dark bags under his crystalline blue eyes.

“What about it?” You ask, taking a careful sip of your tea.

“I’m beginning to appreciate it.”

You quirk a brow, blow across the surface of your steaming beverage, “Yeah, why’s that?”

He hums, a long, flat note that sings of contemplation and mirth, “I suppose because you told me to.” He also supposes because you remind him of the rain, how relentless you are, how suddenly you can appear- how suddenly you have, how distracting you are- the way you’ve refreshed the dullness of his mundane schedule, and reminded him of how full and all-encompassing music is.

You’re a torrent of life, bearing down on him without apology or subtle permission, soaking into the minutiae of things he’s hoarded only for himself. You’ve weaseled your way into his mind, and taken a metaphorical spot on his bench at home when he sits down to play. He thinks of Beethoven and he thinks of you. He thinks of Debussy, and there you are.

“I have to go, Y/N. Thanks for the rousing discussion about the weather.” Before he’s able to dig himself a hole, he hangs up and drops his phone into the cup holder. After a moment’s deliberation, he pulls off into the side of the road and parks his car. His engine idles, and the roar of rain within the cab of the car is almost deafening, and doesn’t that just describe you to a T?

Allegro has curled up in the front seat, tail hanging over the edge, along with the tips of his paws. Castiel can remember when Allegro was small enough to fit into the center console, tail wagging ears floppy, tiny little yowl and barks lighting the space of the car up with laughter and joy as his pup sang along to the radio with a tone-deaf ear. 

Castiel reaches over to bury a hand in his silky fur, and rubs at the back of his neck under the leather collar. How the years have flown by carelessly, how he’s let things slide because he seemed to have all the time in the world. If only he could have seen what was coming for him years ago, he’d have done so many things differently. But isn’t that how it always goes?

Rain coats the dusted surface of his driver’s side window, cools it to the touch, entices his hand to lay flat against the glass, revel in the refreshing chill. As his car sits, and he stews in the sounds of nature, his stereo continues playing, synced wirelessly to his phone again. There’s something sacred in this quiet moment, safely cocooned in a metal contraption that makes escape easy, he feels no need to leave.

He feels a grounding need to stay, a fist around his heart chokes a sardonic chuckle straight from the hardened pit of his stomach. He rubs dry fingertips under his eyes and inhales a ragged breath pent-up with emotions he’s tucked away into a coffin. He’s found himself, many days this past month, wondering at what branch of his life he’d chosen as the wrong one. Which one had lead him astray as he climbed the higher reaches of a tree over-weighed with fruit, and snapped beneath his feet? Which one had doomed him? 

Maybe he was always destined to fall. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to make it to the top, to the pinnacle of green life, bearing the sweetest of fruit, the most fulfilling of views and hearty of meals. He was meant to lay at the bottom, on the ground with the rest of the fallen fruit, bruised, unwanted, too heavy to sustain.

From the bottom he can see all the ways his life could have gone, those hundreds of other branches surely strong enough to support the weight of him.

His fingers find the latch of the door, curl around it slowly, loosely.

Callum was down there with him, among all the other rotting fruit, denied the simple jubilation of resting on a sturdy branch and appreciating the sunlight dappling the leaves, the breeze carrying the saccharine scent of fruit.

What is it, he wonders, that determines who falls and who rises?

He wonders if you…no, he can’t imagine you on the ground, littering the earth like fragile regrets. Surely, surely you are seated at the topmost branch, watching the world turn from a firm net of branches and leaves, legs swinging, sun shining on you.

His fingers fall away, limp, and his hands lay in his lap, motionless. It may not be so terrible here on the ground, if he can catch occasional glimpses of you between the blanket of leaves.

It’s been a long time since he stood in the rain. A long time. Since he was a child.

The rain slows, a rolling pillow of clouds passes overhead, taking the downpour elsewhere, and Castiel watches it go, appreciating. His day is gone.

But he knows a place that thrives on moonlight and silver shadows, where sunlight shrivels and slinks away like a threatened animal. He really shouldn’t go. Not with the mood he’s in, nor the strictness of his diet, and the general condition he’s in, but…his windshield wipers squeak offensively against the dry surface of glass- he’s due for a few more regrets.

He turns eastward when finds the motivation to drive again, and subconsciously notes the direction is opposite of town. Opposite of you where you- he’s sure -sit in an armchair reading a book, sipping a cup of homemade tea, carefree and content. All soft and sweet, unassuming. Humming Beethoven.

Castiel’s throat clenches. Now that he can see, he adds speed to his direction. He doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay. But distance grows behind him, and grows in front of him, and he’s adrift, lost in the past, drowning in the present, and dreading the future.

Tomorrow he’ll ask for Callum’s letter, and he’ll read it. Read that man’s last words, the last bits of Callum Mooney that linger in this world. Someone should know. Castiel will be that someone.

This new building, one he could find his way to blind, deaf, and dumb, is such a boon and a burden all at once, Castiel crumples by the time he parks. Bent over the steering wheel, forehead pressed to the smooth leather, hands curled so tight they hurt, Castiel takes a steadying breath.

The parking lot is near empty, but the night has barely begun, and he expects that to change soon. He’ll be the first to dirty a glass, happily, though the reprieve will wear off and he’ll only be disappointed by the time P.M. rolls into A.M. The blinds are closed, but he knows the owner is awake and moving about the joint, cleaning up, and whittling away time. Castiel knows that the closing of his car door is heard.

The front door is heavy, weathered from people being thrown out and drunkards trying to beat their way back in. It’s unlocked, and the ease with which it opens is temptation singing on rusty hinges.

He knows better, but he wants different.

The lights are dim, casting lazy glow on the lacquered high-tops and rounded booths, and without the thrum of conversation, and roar of laughter, the occasional shatter of a beer bottle, it almost doesn’t seem the bar he’s known for the better part of a decade.

“Shit.”

The simple expletive has Castiel smiling, regardless of the dark cloud still looming over him. A pair of deep green eyes are peering over the bar, staring at him in stunted wonder.

“I believe you just described the majority of your menu in one word,” Castiel jokes, making his way to the bar at leisurely pace.

From behind the bar, Dean Winchester, master of witty retorts, says, “Shut up,” He stands, bracing his hands on the edge of the wood as his friend finds a bar-stool directly across from him. “What’s the occasion? Haven’t seen you here since…” He pauses, eyebrows high to blow a breath out from his mouth in wordless completion.

Castiel’s elbows fall onto the bar, fingers netted and chin resting upon them, “Not here for a dose of nostalgia,”

Dean’s eyebrows wrinkle, “Then, what? You’re not here to _just drink_?” That alone says how rare it is for Castiel to order an alcoholic beverage, of any strength.

Castiel shakes his head. “Forget.”

Dean lays a tumbler in front of his dark-haired friend, his motions stiff. He doesn’t like serving Cas alcohol, not after the bombshell of news he was delivered nearly five months ago. “Forget what? Something old, something new?”

Castiel rubs at his heavy eyes. “I don’t know, both? Everything?”

Dean eyes his friend intently as he pours a fifth. “Shit, you’ve had a week then, huh?”

Castiel flops his arms limply to the table, “Not all bad. Noticeably better than the last half of the year,” with a tight sigh he tosses back the biting scotch without so much as a wince and then stares into the empty bottom of his glass.

“Ah,” Dean says knowingly, not knowing. At all. He pours himself a glass, from a different bottle because the one he’s pouring from for Cas has been watered down. He can’t in good conscience serve his friend genuine alcohol.

“A woman,” Cas grunts, finally, glaring at the flares of light catching on minute imperfections in the glass.

“I’m sorry?” Dean says, face pinching, chin receding into his neck.

Castiel huffs, leaves his glass vacant and runs a hand through his hair. “This woman, she…she- out of nowhere. Just suddenly- her name’s Y/N. She’s-…” Castiel sighs tightly, frowns just as tersely.

Dean squints at his friend’s flustered behavior, his tongue-tied explanation. And the penny drops finally when Cas lifts his defeated gaze up to Dean’s confounded aspect. “ _Oh_.” He says, knowingly. Finally knowing.

Thing is, Cas seemed genuinely pissed, more angry than overwhelmed about this woman.

“Yes.” Castiel nods, drops a cheekbone into the net of a waiting palm connected to a sharp elbow anchored to the bar-top like it’s the only force keeping his head upright.

Dean pours Castiel another fifth. “You get her number?” His eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Did I-?” Castiel rolls his eyes, stares hard at the amber liquid reflecting the image of a light above the bar and opts out of meeting Dean’s imploring gaze.

But the action speaks for itself.

“You dog,” Dean remarks, proud. He tips his glass in Cas’ direction before drinking.

Castiel grunts in frustration. “What’s the point?” he grouses, grip tightening on his tumbler, “It wouldn’t be worth it, in the long run.”

Dean hums, deciding not to approach that can of worms, not at the moment anyway. Not until his friend has hit the glass ceiling of his foul mood. Instead, he changes direction. “You still play?”

“Do you still call your car Baby?” Castiel huffs in retort. 

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but clamps his jaw, and shrugs. “When’s the last time you played in front of someone?”

Castiel stalls, glass half-way to his mouth, “A couple of weeks ago, in the day room at the hospital.”

Dean rolls his eyes, frown pulling at his lips. “Please. One nurse doesn’t count. It’s not like you ever _mean_ to play for her.”

Castiel has no correction for that statement. He merely drinks, blinks long and slow, and sighs, “Why? Why do you ask?”

Now Dean smiles, and shoots an arm out, index finger extended, pointing to the corner past Castiel’s right shoulder. “No particular reason.”

Castiel twists, and lays eyes on a plain black upright piano on a raised portion of the floor. A light overhead beams down on her, encases her in a gold halo with quiet glory and gentle hush. “Is it even in tune?” He asks tiredly.

Dean shrugs, “How the hell should I know? I don’t play.”

Castiel deflates. “Dean-”

He smiles toothily, green eyes alight with mirth. “Come on, sing us a song. You’re the Piano Man.”

They don’t talk about how long that raised floor has sat empty, pointedly void of a piano shaped object, because of the very man Dean now cajoles into playing.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too fragile for your establishment?” Castiel coasts around the situation at hand.

“You’re a little too fragile for my establishment,” Dean shoots back, expression flat, “What do you think’s going to happen?”

Castiel reaches for the bottle, the bottle Dean’s been drinking out of. Their eyes meet, blues darkening with perception, and green dimming with concern. “I might die.” Castiel intones dryly.

Dean throws his hands up, frown growing bitter and stiff, “Shit, you’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Castiel pours himself a half, smiling wanly, “She says I’m an ass, but she doesn’t even mean it.” He mutters, shaking his head, trying to get you out. Out of his memory, out of his mind’s eye, out of his longing wants for the future, but you’ve pasted yourself so expertly into his life he’s afraid of tearing the whole thing to shreds trying to remove you.

“In for a real treat, isn’t she?” Dean grunts, watching Castiel slink away from the bar, expression softening as his friend’s back is turned. Dean remembers Castiel being so much larger.

Castiel sets his glass on a nearby table and hesitates that final step up to the instrument. Always hesitating that last step, wondering, waiting, worrying. Maybe that’s why he never made it to the top of the tree.

The door opens, conversation quiet, self-conscious about being heard in the near empty bar.

He said he wasn’t here for nostalgia, but that’s exactly what he feels as he sits down at the bench and looks at the keys shining and glimmering under the fluorescent light. He almost plays something different to spite Dean, but…as his fingers make contact with the ivory teeth, he’s painfully cliché.

The opening tumble of notes, the space where a harmonica should chime in, that’s where he smiles. That’s where it begins, and it does feel distinctly like a beginning, like a small do-over delivered on a brass plate with compliments from the chef.

There’s a knick on the floor, an old stain that’s dyed the sandalwood a muddy brown: the memory is there, on the fringes of his mind, dangling like a knife. He remembers the night both of these imperfections made themselves permanent fixtures of the bar, remembers how that night stamped his life with misery.

But tonight is a different night. It’s a night that he knows better, but wants differently, and there’s no one to pay for it but him.

So, he smiles, and plays, and does something he hasn’t done in a very long while. He sings.

“ _It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday. Regular crowd shuffles in…_ ”

Dean smiles, something bittersweet in the tug of his lips as people begin to make their way inside, and find music coming from a living, breathing person, and not the speakers wired into the corners of the walls. Once upon a time, it used to only be Cas. No radio, no rock-and-roll playlist…

But that was years ago, when they were all younger and bright-eyed, and the world was theirs for the taking. One fateful night was all it took for Cas to escape into a better life, one that had money and respect, and one that didn’t smell of peanut dust and cheap beer.

He’d be lying if Dean said he wasn’t bitter about the whole thing for a time. Mostly, he just missed seeing Cas at the piano, playing like he is tonight: as if tomorrow doesn’t matter, and yesterday never happened.

Still, Dean is glad Castiel got away from his bar, glad he got out in the world and made a living doing what he loves. Dean only wishes it hadn’t cost Castiel so much. If he’d known what was coming for Castiel, Dean would’ve shoved his friend out the door instead of trying to make him stay.

He deserved a lot better than what life had dealt him.

As people file in and order drinks, Dean operates on auto-pilot, less attention on customers and more on his best friend. He wonders what would be the best course of action? To leave it all to chance, let his morose and depressing friend squander what time he has…or, kick his ass into high gear and convince him to grab life by boobs and not let go?

_Or-or…_ convince him to grab _your_ boobs- Dean snickers to himself as he pours someone a fifth of tequila, ignoring their suspicion filled gaze.

It’s good. This feeling. This view. Feels like home. He doesn’t say anything to Cas about playing the piano, his friend just plays. Plays and plays as more people find their way to Dean’s bar confused momentarily about the change in tune. But they settle in easy enough, no complaints. Change is not necessarily a bad thing.

The parking lot fills in before 10, and the mood simmers at a low boil, the most docile Dean’s bar has ever been. The night carries on with easy-going report, people requesting songs, and Castiel all too happy to acquiesce.

Dean’s bar closes at 2 in the morning, and Dean makes the final request of Castiel. A song everyone knows, one most everyone can sing along to, filled with alcohol or not.

Dean even does something he hasn’t dared to do in near 7 years. He takes his guitar out of the back room, tunes it, and pulls a seat up next to Cas, facing the crowd as he accompanies his friend. Dean won’t forget the smile on Cas’ face, or the way the bar has changed into a gathering of civilized people due to Castiel’s playing. And he won’t forget about the drink that Castiel leaves untouched on a table as he departs for the night, headed home.

As Dean watches the taillights of Castiel’s car disappear into the dark of the night, toward the opposite horizon, he clenches his throat around a ball sitting somewhere near his adam’s apple, obstructing his breathing.

“ _Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…_ ” He sings quietly to himself, eyes dim and mouth limp. The parking lot is empty, and he feels a sudden itch to make a venture into town.

Make it better. Lord knows Castiel won't do it on his own. Dean nods to himself, decided. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a completely un-related note: if anyone has any requests, or prompts for me, find me on tumblr under the same name and submit them to me there.   
> Or don't. Lord knows I have million stories I need to finish XD  
> Love to you all!


	4. Sempre Sorridente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past comes to us in pieces, reminding us of things gone, but not forgotten. And the present winds itself together like the threads of a tapestry, shred by shred, colors muddied. The picture only revealed when we look back after time has passed. Castiel is looking forward to the tapestry he's creating with you. All else is irrelevant, even the fast approaching tragedy coming at him like a freight train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was supposed to be completely sweet, full of tooth-rotting fluff. But naah, man. I can't do that. I suck. :D

_Sunlight struggles against a wall of clouds so still they appear to be painted into the sky, so unchanging and dull they are. The wind is a ghost on this lazy day of quiet obligation, appearing ever so often, as briefly as a hummingbird stops to feed, and just as unfulfilling. There’s a promise of rain far on the horizon, one that is not seen, but felt. Felt in the bones, and in the draw of breath as you sit by the window, cracked open to let in the chill._

_Goosebumps pepper your skin, but you sit statuesque, watching cars flit by on the road, drivers and passengers peacefully apathetic to anything beyond the scope of metal and plastic that they reside in, listening to whatever music spills callously from the speakers within._

_Your fingers have gone to ice, the blood in them stalled. There is a fine layer of dust upon the keys of your piano, unmarred by fingertips, vacant of a good brush down._

_You’d gone to a piano solo contest more than a week ago, and you’ve been trapped in that concert hall since then, your mind on a loop. You wanted to participate, to sign up, but the time just hadn’t been right, according to your mother._

_The contestants were good, skilled, no doubt. And they were young, younger than you, some barely older. You could have fit in up there on that stage bathed in golden light, warmed and flush with anticipation, holding its breath._

_It wasn’t the want for glory or adoration, it was the pureness of a chance to give to the audience what music had filled you with. You wanted everyone to know, to **feel** what music **is**_ **.** _But you needn’t have worried about gracing the listening ears with beauty and perfection: he delivered._

_He played and the world stopped spinning for a total of thirteen minutes to pay its respect, to appreciate and listen to pure intent and untarnished emotion, breathe in awe of startling talent and youthful vivacity._

_He was submerged in his own playing, removed from the crowd and the venue, separated from the artificial light, haloed in the grace of his music-making, he was ethereal in that moment, up on that stage, above everyone but without knowledge of it._

_He was young, around your age, perhaps a bit older, but he had a way of playing that was so very beyond his age, beyond the scope of believability that you could do little else but bask in wonder and adoration. Your fate was sewn into the tapestry of the universe itself that day: you would be a musician, you would be an artist, you would be a medium for that soulful, untouchable force of such celestial glory that it would bring tears to those that listened._

You want no glory, only purpose, and peace. You became evangelical for music. Spreading word of it where and when you could.

If you close your eyes and listen hard, if you hold your breath, you can hear it. The sound of his song filling the auditorium, driving away the dust and the anxiety, and the worries of tomorrow, bringing in the promise of sunshine and smiles.

He was patient, letting the music find its way out of him, flowing naturally like a river out to the ocean, becoming part of something much bigger, and more beautiful, something that everyone can see and touch, and hear. Something everyone could be a part of.

He was a savant at the piano, natural, as if breathing and playing were the same thing-

_His hands glide like dancers of a waltz on the floor of a ballroom across the keys, sure and loose, reverent and respectful. But soulful and pleading for what lies within, what belongs out in the world. Eyes closed, absorbed whole-heartedly in the act of soul-letting. It’s as if colors become three-dimensional and can be felt as he plays. Memories rise up from the dark recesses of minds, ones full to bursting with happiness and hope._

_His countenance is soft, drawn to a place of pensive thought, but familiar ease. There’s a feed-back loop of wondrous intention: play and be heard. Be heard, and play. Be heard because you’re playing. Play because you’re being heard._

_Play, because you can. Because it is in you and keeping it there would be a disservice to the world._

_How otherworldly he seems, with his effortless playing, and his near-indiscernible tweaks in the piece he’s playing that bring a new depth, a richer tone and stronger persuasion to let go and feel. The hall is deadly silent, all attention on him and his rendition that bleeds intellect, and hapless love for the very instrument he’s conducting himself through._

_How vast his emotions must be, how sharp his mind must be also. And the preposterous coincidence that these two qualities cohabit the same body, the same mind, find their way out through nimble, thin hands that could nary hurt a fly is astounding._

_He’s small, there, at the piano, on that giant stage and everyone sees a little boy. A frail, doe-eyed boy with unruly dark hair, who surely does not know the extent of the gift he has, and who will, inadvertently, squander it brutishly._

_But you see something so very different. So very…worthy, infallible, light as a feather, but stronger than steel._

_It is love for music. A love that surpasses the basic of needs: eating and drinking and sleeping. His love for music surpasses the want for luxuries: He’s wearing a pair old black converse, one shoe untied, his tie is on backwards, the knot isn’t quite tight enough. His love for music beats into submission the emotions that might drive his performance to something undesirable._

_His love for music transcends the nowness of the moment he’s in. He is not present, he is in music, taken by it wholly, a willing captive with no thoughts of escape. **Music is the escape.**_

_You hope you can meet that boy one day and thank him._

It niggles at you to this day: that you never bothered asking, learning who he was. Where you might find him, where or how you might listen to him play again.

You’d like to. You think, if you could hear him play one more time you might just find that hidden pocket of musical belief, of coveted tactfulness and masterful ease. How much better he must have gotten over the years…

You sigh longingly, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind your ear. You’re late again, but barely, and you hope she won’t notice. Hope she won’t be cross.

It’s a long ride to see her, and a longer walk. Perhaps, it’s not the length, but the destination.

There will only be a decline, a steady, gradual decline until she can no longer keep her eyes open and carry a conversation. They’ll put her in a medically induced coma soon, and she won’t be able to hear you, hear you play for her.

Even still, you walk in with a bright smile that brushes aside the inevitable truth like swatting a troublesome fly, and greet her warmly, “Hi, mom. You’ve been waiting.”

She’s in her wheelchair, a journal in her lap, makeshift sheet music drawn into the notebook paper by her own hand. She closes it quickly, and smiles at you innocuously, “Only because you’re late,”

You pinch an apologetic smile and make your way towards her, “So, what will it be today? Mozart, Rachmaninoff? Debussy?”

As you grab the handle of her wheelchair and begin pushing her, she settles back, “Are you avoiding a certain artist?”

Mm. Well, when she knows, she knows. “You want to hear Chopin? Really? You always say I butcher his penned works.”

She chuckles, “I’m hoping you’ll clean up on your control, and respect for tempo.”

You nod at a passing nurse with a wan smile, “What for? I don’t do competitions. Playing perfectly doesn’t suit me.”

She sighs wistfully, “Playing what you feel, does. Right?” She sounds scolding, but you can’t see the smile she’s wearing, the way she’s thumbing the corner of her journal with a gleam in her eye.

You hum an affirmative, grinning broadly. “Is there really any other way to _play_?”

“Y/N,” She begins, pale lips quirking in the corners with an emotion that aches of nostalgia, “I don’t want to hear Chopin today. I made a special request…”

Your interest is piqued. “Oh?”

“A kind nurse ordered the sheet music. Unfortunately, she didn’t exactly do it legal,”

“So?”

She grins knowingly, “So, if you end up loving the composition, you will be sadly without the composer’s name. Only way she could find it for free. I didn’t ask.”

“Huh.” You grunt, turning her wheelchair around in the elevator. The second floor is your destination. The day room with its big open windows and white tables, lattice backed chairs, and dark green rubber plants. The cherry hardwood floor…it’s the best room in the hospital.

Most importantly, there’s a piano near a corner of the windows. The ambience and reverb in the room is phenomenal.

You put her in her preferred spot: Just between the piano and the window, so she has her ear to the music and the garden in front of her.

True to her word, there is a sheet music waiting on the stand, patiently anticipating your rendition and attention. As you sit down and get comfortable, you pause that moment, fingertips dancing the edge of the keys, “Mother…do _you_ know who composed this?”

She tilts her head, expression guileless in the reflection of the window. “I can’t quite remember now. I only knew the name of the piece.”

_The Fall (Prelude), in E minor_  

_Op. 12 No. 3_

Sure enough, there is no name to the composer. At a glance, the piece appears overly complex. Less about emotion and fluidity and more about the composer bragging about his own ability to play, mocking those that would attempt. All the split-second changes, the tempo shifts, the seemingly random placement of decrescendos, the over the top crescendos mixed with fermatas…it’s almost as if the composer couldn’t decide where he wanted to take the music.

Nevertheless, your mother has made a request, and knows what she is in for.

You take your time reading the music, analyzing what’s there, and feeling what got left behind. What _you_ can add, what you feel.

The room breathes, understanding in the stillness of beaming sunlight and lazy drift of dust as you make contact with your soul. You land among the skeleton of the work in front of you, feeling the absence, the rejection of blunt honest truth. The prelude, you realize, before you even play a single note is about denial, and anger, and strangled hope.

It isn’t that the skeleton is missing flesh. The composer…was without music when he wrote. Absent of love and affection for the very thing he penned to paper: music.

The only thing that comes across is pain, and despair, confusion, loneliness, defeat. Emptiness.

Your eyes well with sorrow. You bow your head, staring at your waiting hands. _I’ll play it how you wrote it, at least once. You wanted what you felt to be known. And then I’ll play what you missed out on. I want what I feel to be known, too._

A dolce begins the piece, played at slower tempo than the rest of the song, the notes riddled with fermata. A full 12 measures of quiet confusion, brimming with barely restrained indignation. Repeated. At the player’s discretion.

_How long did you feel this way?_

To play without shedding tears would be disrespectful, callous, and inhuman. You can scarcely see through your tears, but you blink them all free to run course down your cheeks as you play, teeth dug into your bottom lip so meanly you think nothing of the tang of iron that touches your tongue. It is nothing compared to the pain you are playing.

 

 

He’s frozen, stock-still. Which is impressive for one reason: he had been running at a break-neck pace down the hallway mere moments before. He heard the piano being played, and true enough that it was there for anyone to play- but he had come to think of the piano in the day room as _his._

It was where he had written a good number of his works, let his heart bleed over the keys, threaded his soul through the strings of the soundboard, wet the teeth of the instrument with his bitter tears-

Like you now do. But not bitter. It’s grief, sympathetic sorrow.

The door is cracked open, and he stands on the other side of it, watching in hidden safety as you play his piece with perfect attention and precision. Even through your crying.

He shakes his head. How could you know? Was what he had written that obvious? Or are you just that astute?

He wishes he hadn’t written it. Now that he’s seen you cry. Not his intention, ever. He just wanted freed from what he felt. He didn’t want to transfer it to anyone else. He just wanted it out. Gone from him.

But here you are, picking it up. Carrying it on your shoulders like he did: bowed over the keys, head low, back stiff. God, it’s like he’s there, next to you, writing it again, feeling it. Playing it.

No. He hadn’t gotten rid of it. It’s still in him, brewing, on a low heat waiting to boil over again.

It’s been four days since he’s talked to you, and he’s carried Callum’s letter with him over those four days, tucked into his pocket like a reminder. The words on the page are committed to his memory now, and they drive him, like you do, to be better. He wants to see the world the way you do, he wants to feel life the way you do.

He thought he’d shed a tear or two, hearing his music, dredging up those parasitic emotions and doom sprinkled memories. But he’s dry-eyed and numb to the intensity that once pushed him to sobbing tears over that piano.

That piano may have just become the most blessed instrument on the planet, graced with your tears. Surely, it’s now been bestowed with holy power. Surely. Nothing else could extend the caliber of an instrument quite like your touch and method, your respect, love.

Damn, that piano better be humbled.

Castiel sure is.

When it ends, a great of time after it should have (you took great liberty with how many times you repeated certain measures), he watches you pause, your fingertips lingering on the very edge of the teeth.

“I’m sorry,” He hears you mutter, voice choked with salty tears. As you wipe at your cheeks, streaked red already, he considers walking in, strongly. Only to hesitate that one fateful moment longer than he should.

“Silly girl. The one time you play what’s on the page,” Another voice interjects, part scolding, another part that’s soft concern.

Castiel sees her, then. Sitting in front of the window, almost hidden by the piano. She’s small, frail, skinny, layered in soft cotton to help keep her warm. The sun sprinkles over her shyly, warming her hair that’s very much like your own. From this distance he can’t make out much of her, but there’s a faint reflection in the glass…her facial shape reminds him of you. Your mother?

Castiel feels a new, more intricate type of dread twist his stomach and heart into a violent, choking knot. He can’t believe the chances, how cruel fate is, how selfish he is…because he has no intentions of walking away from you, even knowing better. Knowing that staying makes him just as unfeeling as life itself.

But you are what he’s been denied for so long, he wants at least one taste of it before…

“I need a moment,” your voice shakes, cracks.

The sound shatters him. You are a wondrous creature, and he’s nowhere near worthy to know you. He watches you dissolve into wracking sobs that chop your breath in half and force more tears from your eyes.

You’re so pure, so innocent, so sweet. He should leave before he steals the light from you, before he reaches up for you, and ends up tugging you to the cold ground with him. He should turn tail and run. Run away from you. _For_ you.

But damned if his feet aren’t glued to the floor, watching you connect with him on a level that no one has come close to. You read his music, played it. More than that, you found _him_ within the notes, and you didn’t shy away from what was in him. You didn’t run from the pain he put into music. You welcomed it, and you respected it. Welcomed him.

It’s over for him. Right there, as you uselessly wipe at your red eyes and blubber like a toddler. You’re a mess. No doubt about it. But he can’t fight what he knows to be irrefutably true.

Castiel has fallen in love with you.

How great, and how terrible a thing it is. How gorgeous, and how ugly the battles are that come tacked along.

He leans into the doorjamb, temple resting on room-temperature wood that smells like old-fashioned varnish. Your tears slow, sorrow reaching an end, and he smiles softly at your quiet strength, your sensitivity.

The moment he’s been waiting for arrives: Your hands rest once again on the edge of the keys, stay there until the trembling ceases. He holds his breath, sapphire hues darkening with focus and excitement.

…you play.

You’ve taken it out of E minor.

But of course, you have. You, with your overflowing hope and endless cheer, and positivity. Your smile as warm as the sun…

You just might be the sun. And if you are, he won’t mind the chance of flying close enough to plummet afterwards, wings made useless due to your vibrancy and warmth.

One repeat in the beginning, notes accented. Getting your point across early: There’s no reason to quit, to give in. Gather your strength, the fight is just starting.

There’s consistency when you play now. You’ve created order out of his angry chaos. You’ve sewn in a methodology that is purely you: taking his view, _his truth_ , and turned it 180. No random crescendos, they fit seamlessly as the music swells appropriately with triumph. You carry a consistent motif with your left hand: taken from his own, but spun into something that’s gently resolute, hopeful, and the rest of the piece builds on it, uses it as a staircase as you tell a different story from his pain and sorrow.

His prelude, once about falling and perishing under the weight of the unchangeable…is now about rising. Rising as softly, slowly, as the morning sun. _His_ prelude was the beginning of the end. But yours is the beginning of everything.

The repetitions you employ are strategic, they accent sections that once were about defeat, and churn them into courage, they rise, resulting in forte.

Your pace has been consistent, you haven’t altered the tempo. You’ve keet it at a leisurely pace, but now, now as you near the end, you increase. Your notes are stronger, crisp, they hit harder, leaving no room for argument or second-guessing. The motif carries the prelude to its conclusion, played vivace and forte.

Where have you been his whole life? And why couldn’t he have met you sooner? He could’ve been spared the worst of life if you had been by his side.

You smile now, relieved and free.

He wants you to free him before…

“You weren’t meant for competitions, Y/N,” That woman notes quietly, her voice barely reaching Castiel from where he stands.

He can’t help but agree. The way you play…judges would consider it blasphemy. He grins.

“No. I know…but I don’t think he was, either.”

“Who?” She asks, and Castiel thinks the same: who wasn’t?

Your fingers still rest on the keys. “That boy…you took me to watch a competition in New York when I was kid…” Your fingers twitch involuntarily, itching to take off and play again.

Castiel inches the door open wider to better hear the conversation.

“…and this boy. He played, and…everything changed. The world wasn’t the same to me after hearing him. Mom, the way he played…”

She hums in remembrance, “It was like he invented music himself. As if he was music personified at that piano. He was tiny on that stage…but I guarantee if it hadn’t been a competition…that stage wouldn’t have been able to hold him.”

“Yeah,” You agree, your hands reaching out for that motif, mixing the grief, adding the hope.

“That’s when you decided, isn’t it? On being a musician?” She turns in her chair, smiling at you warmly.

You nod. “There was no other path for me, after that. I just wish I could thank him somehow.”

Your mother closes her eyes, “New York…what year was this? You may be able to look it up, find the contestants…”

You shake your head, “I’ve tried, but the only thing they care about are the winners. And he didn’t win,”

Your mother’s eyebrows rise, her weary eyes taking to watching birds dip in the birdbath outside. “Why not?”

You grin widely, “Because he loved music more than winning.”

She chuckles, “Well, I’ll wrack this ‘ol brain of mine. See if I can’t remember the kiddos from back then.”

Suddenly, you laugh, and express your reason through your laughter, “He had his tie on backwards, Mom. It was adorable!”

Castiel’s eyes are wide as saucers.

Could it be? Could the universe actually be that neat? Does he even believe in coincidence? Does he believe in fate?

New York, at a piano competition, and he didn’t win. He had his tie on backwards.

He remembers.

That was him.

You’re talking about _him._

“Is that supposed to help me remember?” She quips sassily, her tone jovial.

“Maybe! It sure hasn’t let me forget.” You retort, playing that motif softly, lips tugged into a serene smile.

My God. Castiel turns and leans into the wall, inhaling a large breath. He can’t believe…

Cosmic. But such is his life because of you.

His hands are shaking at his sides with nerves, with a sweet rose-colored emotion. It’s no wonder he’s felt drawn to you. What you believe about him has fashioned you in some way, blossomed the vastness of your love for music. You’ve carried the memory of him all these years, carried a piece of him within the quiet corners of your mind. He’s never left you.

You’ve…had him with you all these years.

How many near misses have the two of you had? How much sooner could he have met you if he altered something simple about his day?

_There you go again,_ he thinks, as you play his song, _always showing me up. Showing me I’m wrong. Cheering me up._

Where did you sit back then, in that concert hall? Had he looked right at you? He doesn’t think he did. If he had seen you back then, no chance in Hell he’d forget.

Ten seconds in an elevator together proved long enough for you to needle your way into his life. Best ten seconds of his life. The most meaningful. Ten seconds he wouldn’t change for anything. Not for anything.

“Do you want to hear anything else?” He hears you ask.

_God, yes._ He thinks, whetting his lips, but he says nothing, does nothing other than listen on the other side of a door.

“Play it again… _your_ way.”

_Yes. Yes, please. Play everything your way, don’t ever stifle your spirit, Y/N. Would you…play for me? If I asked?_

“Mr. Novak?” The question is hushed but bridled with confusion.

He jumps and turns, not hearing her approach. Deftly, he closes the door, and addresses her, “Cady, good afternoon.”

Her hazel eyes crinkle, and her gaze slides to the door. “She comes here every week to visit her mother. And play for her.”

Castiel nods stiffly, feeling like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. Though that’s far from the truth. “Is she alright?” He asks, to cover his embarrassment, and also to learn a little more about you and your life.

Cady’s smile falters tellingly, and Castiel’s heart plummets like a stone through water.

“She doesn’t have much longer.”

Castiel frowns bitterly. What a pattern. With a shake of his head and a crease between his brows, he ghosts passed Cady. “She’s very loved.”

It occurs to him, on his way to treatment, that perhaps it wasn’t only what you gleaned of his own feelings through his prelude that brought you to tears…maybe it was also your mother. The thought makes him stop and look behind at the long stretch of hallway, at those mahogany doors where music trickles out from, and he swallows thickly.

He also doesn’t know who he was talking about in that moment. Your mother.

Or you?

Because either way…the statement is true.

He’ll call you today, and he’ll cheer you up. Maybe he’ll invite you out to join him for a walk with Allegro. You love his dog to bits, which Allegro is thrilled about.

You still call him third-wheel, appropriately, when it’s the three of you. He’s fine with that. So long as he gets to spend time with you, that’s all that matters.

It’s time to stop living in the past and fearing the future. It’s time for him to live now, to love each moment, and appreciate what he has, while it’s here.

Those mahogany doors begin to open, and he turns tail, rushing to his treatment, hoping you don’t recognize him from behind. Your voice reaches him from down the hall, merry and upbeat as you talk to your mother about music in general.

God, he loves you. And he also loves how oblivious you are in this moment as he successfully slips away unnoticed.

He’ll definitely call you today. And tomorrow. And the day after.

And soon, very soon, he’ll play for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is somewhat of a filler chapter...Kinda lost my groove, but didn't want to abandon it altogether. Much love! <3 <3


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